


Days in the Life of Moose & Squirrel

by smilingoceanlover



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, MSR, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Random & Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2020-02-28 17:55:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18761464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smilingoceanlover/pseuds/smilingoceanlover
Summary: Random MSR drabbles.





	1. Waxing Poetic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ridiculous drabble in honor of bikini waxing season, and because Scully absolutely maintains waist down with wax, not razor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “While I’m down there, it might be nice to see a hint of pubis.  I’m not talking about a huge ‘70s Playboy bush or anything, just something that reminds me that I’m performing cunnilingus on an adult.” - Hank Moody

 

He couldn’t unsee it.  Which meant that he couldn’t unthink about it.  He tipped his chair back with his feet on the desk.  The pencil flew to the ceiling and bounced off.

 

It’s not like what he did constituted spying.  It was a brochure.  He could go down to this place, walk in, and pick up the same brochure. It’s not like he was reading her mail or something.  Pencil #2. Missed.

 

He had gone to her workspace to grab a case file.  _Sorry, Scully, when I picked up the file, your brochure fell on the floor._   He’d be able to look her straight in the eye. The third pencil connected, but didn’t stick.

 

When he had bent over to pick the brochure off the floor, he put it right back on the table.  He didn’t even glance at it.  At first. Then he picked it up off the desk, and studied it.  There was an appointment card stapled to the front.  WAXING POETIC.  1872 Wisconsin Ave.  Georgetown. (202) 555-0526.  Name: Dana.  Aesthetician: Zoe.  Appointment: Saturday, June 17.  Time: 1pm.

 

He opened the slim brochure, which was sleek and professional. Lots of white and beige, with some words highlighted in teal.  "Waxing Poetic uses only the finest hard wax specially formulated for sensitive skin; hypoallergenic, free of parabens and plastics,“ he read.  Next was a list of Most Popular Services:

 

Ultimate Brows $20

Maintenance Brow $30

Brow Wax & Tint $45

***

Full Leg $45

Half Leg $40

***

Bikini $40

Extended Bikini $50

Not Quite Brazilian $55

 

Brazilian $65

 

Ultimate Brows: "includes professional trimming, shaping, contour & highlight.” _Highlighted brows?_   He blinked and studied her face in his mind.  Her brows. Specifically, her right one.  He wonders if she raises it at Zoe while she’s contouring.  Does she highlight them?  _They do match the hair._

 

Bikini: “Your basic Bikini includes sides only (inside of leg adjacent to the bikini line).”

 

Extended Bikini: “Removes hair about 2-3 inches further inside than a traditional Bikini wax.”

 

Not Quite Brazilian: “Natural in the front and groomed to the back.  Removes hair from the leg crease/bikini area, the underside of the labia to the back.”

 

Brazilian: “Our Brazilian removes all hair in the front, on the outside and underside of the labia.”

 

_FUCK._

 

Damn his eidetic memory.  He’s not going to be able to stop thinking about this for a week. His fourth pencil hit the ceiling and knocked two others off, all three falling down onto his desk.  Whatever she was having done, it was happening on Saturday.  With Zoe.

 

He knows she swims.  He’s never actually seen her do it, sadly.  She’s told him the story about how her father taught her how to swim when she was 6, and that she was on the swim team in high school.  He rubbed his thumb and fingers over his chin, already rougher by now at 2pm.  No way would Scully tolerate stubble, or razor burn.  _She waxes.  Because of course she does._ He’d just never thought about it before.  His fifth attempt to land a pencil barely grazed the ceiling.

 

Maybe she waxes her legs too.  He’s checked out her legs, of course.  Never when she’s looking.  Her legs are always perfectly smooth.  Impeccably smooth, both in and out of her hosiery that somehow seems to disappear at some point during the day when it’s hot out.  And when that happens, he’s not sure how he stops himself from falling to his knees, sticking out his tongue, and just getting this goddamn show on the road starting right there at her ankle.  He thinks about how he’d stop for a minute to lave that soft spot behind her knee, readying for the final destination between her inner thighs.

 

It would be hard to control himself, to touch her so gently first.  Just a glance of his fingers along the soft swells and valleys, barely tracing the tender creases.  But he would. And he has always imagined the thrill of feeling the hair there; thicker, coarser.  _Red_.  Maybe she trims it shorter in the front so it’s close to her skin; maybe it’s longer so he can comb the pads of his fingers through it.  Unless, in fact, it’s all entirely gone and she is as smooth and bare as her legs always are.  He’d never been with a woman who had taken it all off before.  Not that it’s any of his business how any woman takes care of herself, but he realizes in this moment that when it comes to Scully, he definitely wants a bit to play with.

 

His feet hit the floor and he looked at his watch. Scully would be back any minute. She had gone upstairs for some paperwork and to drop off a report in Skinner’s office.  He needed to regulate his racing thoughts, and his breathing. He opened the case file that had started him down this torturous new path in his ongoing Scully fantasy journey that has gone on for so long now it’s completely ridiculous.  He grabbed one of the ill-fated pencils, and started making notes. _Spectral auras.  Spectral auras._

 

He heard the distant elevator chime and the doors open. Her heels tapping one after the other as he visualized her walking briskly down the hallway.  He hunkered down into the file.  He dared to look up and make eye contact.  Her brows were perfectly contoured.  He looked back at the file.  _Spectral auras._ Scully went to her desk.

 

“Hey, uh, Scully, I found something of yours stuck between the case files I needed, so I just… I put it back on your desk.  For your appointment on Saturday.” He glanced at her sideways.

 

“Thanks, Mulder.”  He saw her pick up the brochure and put it into her bag, apparently without a second thought.  She then sat down, and proceeded to lay out all of the paperwork she had brought with her onto the surface of the desk into various piles.

 

He cleared his throat.  "I just didn’t want you to think I was getting in your business.“

 

"It’s ok, Mulder,” she responded, distracted, focused on sorting through the documents in front of her.

 

“Well, it’s kind of personal, Scully.”

 

“What is?” her response slightly delayed as she studied the paperwork.

 

“I just mean, depending on the part… what’s being … waxed,” and he boldly raised his eyebrows at her as she met his gaze.

 

Her expression flickered so quickly, he wasn’t sure if she smirked slightly before her brows furrowed again in concentration as she looked back down at her work.

 

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

 

“Depends, but not really,” she replied, appearing to only be half-concentrating on the conversation as she compared a series of lab results.

 

“Depends on what?”

 

“Depends on the area of the epidermis being waxed, and the size of the surface area.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Women have a higher pain tolerance,” she added, while she circled what were apparently relevant findings.

 

“What, uh… how long does it take?”

 

At that, Scully looked up, as if somehow realizing this conversation was going on much longer than it should be.  "How long does what take, Mulder?“

 

"To get waxed,” he asked, somewhat sheepishly.

 

“Why?” she narrowed her eyes, and then a beat. “Don’t tell me you’re actually thinking about it.”

 

“Thinking about what?” his voice betraying his attempt to appear politely curious.

 

“Going to that conference in Bethesda on Saturday afternoon.  Because, no, Mulder, I’m not going, and I’m not changing my mind.  Not only is it a blatant attempt to extort you by charging $50.00 a ticket, but I’m not spending any part of my weekend listening to anybody talk about poltergeists.“

 

"Right,” Mulder exhaled the breath he’d been holding quietly.  "Ix-nay on the poltergeists.“

 

Scully bent her head back over the reports. "I’ve got to go over to Quantico and pull some more data.  We need a larger sample.”

 

“I just don’t understand why women feel like they need to do that to themselves,” he blurted out.  He couldn’t help it.

 

“Mulder?  What are you talking about?” Scully responded, notes of annoyance and a bit of genuine concern in the tone of her voice now.  She walked up to him, bringing the back of her hand to his forehead.  Apparently satisfied there was no fever, she put her hands on her hips and stared him down.

 

“Nothing, Scully,” he sighed.  "I’m up to my neck in spectral auras.  I can’t make sense of what I’m thinking right now.“

 

She stared at him, appeared to want to argue, but then changed her mind.  She walked back to her desk, methodically selecting documents from two of the piles and placing them in a folder in her bag.  She then went to the door, looking back at Mulder who was staring at the pencils hanging precariously from the ceiling.

 

"I’ll be back in a couple of hours, Mulder. I’ll stop and get you some of the good coffee on my way back.”

 

“Thanks, Scully,” he said, rubbing his eyes,  He looked back down at the file, grabbed a sunflower seed and sucked it between his teeth.

 

“When it’s summertime, Mulder, I usually take it all or most of it off.  I do it for myself because I like how it feels.  In the wintertime I usually just maintain the bikini line.  It’s like a sharp pinch when it’s happening, but I wouldn’t say it hurts.  The whole thing takes about 10 minutes.”

 

Mulder’s head had whipped up so quickly she had to will herself not to laugh, while at the same time wondering if she should order an x-ray to rule out possible cervical spine displacement.  She raised that perfectly contoured brow. She smiled her enigmatic smile, and walked out the door.

 

***

 

Epilogue.  Some months (maybe years) later…

 

Mulder’s head rests on her thigh, facing her.  His stubble rough and her skin smooth.  The air is heavy in its quiet, after.  His long fingers run up and down the velvety softness of her labia, which is perfectly smooth and bare, inside and out.  She is so soft.  There are no adjectives or metaphors that can possibly describe how she feels.   She lies on her back and sighs quietly, her arm draped over his shoulder.  He smiles, as his finger raises to the rectangular patch of perfectly trimmed, red hair directly over her mons that she always leaves for him.  It’s just long enough to play with.


	2. Elevation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mulder makes the most out of a claustrophobic situation. Set during the SoSS, so our intrepid agents can enjoy overheated suffering thanks to ‘90s tech and mechanical engineering. 
> 
> Dedicated to David Duchovny’s speaking voice. You fucking send me, DD.
> 
> Chapter is NC-17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I received a sweet message on ff.net from Hannah, who said she’s been asking writers for a story about Mulder & Scully getting stuck in an elevator over a long weekend, but that no one has responded to her. Well, Hannah, I couldn’t figure out how to keep them in an elevator for an entire weekend without it going all Lord of the Flies, but hopefully this is close enough to what you had in mind. Thanks for your prompt, and for reading my work!

“Hold on…”

 

She heard the zipper and then the rustling of paperwork in his work bag, a low grunt.

 

“Got it.”

 

More rustling, and then a click.  A beam of light erupted, the single orb appearing to multiply through its reflection in the stubbornly sealed steel doors facing them.  They looked at each other, their eyes glittering in the dark.  Mulder aimed the flashlight at the bank of controls; which were completely devoid of any signs of life.  He reached forward and pressed the buttons, rewarded with nothing more than a series of hollow tapping sounds.

 

“Great.”  He swore he heard the eye roll.

 

“I don’t have a signal,” he said, now looking at the cell phone he had pulled from his pocket. He took several steps to one corner, then the one opposite, holding the phone above his head, raising and lowering it at various angles.

 

She reached into her purse for her phone.  "Me neither.“

 

"Can’t be the elevator,” he muttered, the light playing across all of the walls and ceiling. “The electricity in the building must have gone out.  Listen. No A/C.”

 

He watched her take a step to the back wall, and slide down to the floor.  "Just great.“

 

He sighed heavily.  It was his fault.  Again.  He’s the one who convinced her to stay an extra day so he could check out the rumors about what had been sighted in the deserted glade on the hill outside of town.Where they found… nothing.  Now they were literally trapped while trying to get the hell out of the rat trap motel.

 

"We’ve still got a few hours til the flight, Scully.”

 

Her response was a muted groan as she stretched her legs out in front of her, and readjusted her skirt down to her knees.

 

“I need to make this better, don’t I,” he flashed the light to the top of the car.  She watched as he zeroed in on the ceiling, his jaw tighter as he appeared to try to figure something out.

 

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

 

“What?” he looked down, and saw her staring at him with a fixed expression.

 

Then, she giggled.  She couldn’t help it.  He was ridiculous.  "You’re not going up through the ceiling.“

 

"I just need a boost, Scully.  There’s only three floors and I think we’re between the first and the second.”

 

“Absolutely not, Mulder,” the smile refusing to leave her face.  "Sit down.  This isn’t your fault.  I know you’re thinking it’s your fault, but it’s not your fault.“

 

"Somehow, Scully, I’m pretty much 100% sure that it’s my fault.  And it’s already getting hot in here,” as he shrugged out of his suit jacket and pulled the knot from his tie.  He sat on the floor, facing her, his back against the doors.  The elevator was so small his long legs almost reached the opposite wall.  He put the flashlight on the floor next to him.

 

“Turn that off, Mulder,” she said then.  "I think that’s a camera up there.  I need to get these nylons off.“

 

Click.  It was pitch black.  He couldn’t see his hand in front of his face.

 

He felt her stand next to him.  He heard her step from her shoes and the tug of clothing.  She bent over, fumbling until her hand found his shoulder.  She leaned on him with one arm as she peeled her hose off with the other hand; first one leg, then the other.  The smell of her shampoo and her lavender lotion nearly tangible in the heated darkness as it swirled around him.  Her hand left his shoulder, and he heard her sit back down. The sound of her skirt as she pulled it down again.

 

His dick twitched.  He couldn’t help it.  He’d realized years ago that his ability to control his thoughts about Scully was entirely and decidedly non-existent.  He’d never admit it, but he had come to the realization that he, Fox Mulder, embodied definitive proof that God exists simply due to the fact that he didn’t have an erection 24/7.  He reached forward in the dark and his hand alighted on her calf.

 

"Mulder,” a hint of warning.  "No.“  He smirked. Yet she persisted in her belief that telepathy was both unproven and absolutely ludicrous.

 

It was less than a second that she felt his lips at her ear and his stubble at her cheek, her senses flooded with the scent of his aftershave and fresh sweat.  Then his whisper, "Why not.”

 

It was her turn to sigh. Now  _this_  was herfault. He’d been patiently asking for sex every day for a week, but they hadn’t closed the case yet, they were on assignment on the government dime, and she refused to bend the rules.  He accepted her answer each time without any complaint, albeit staring at her with that damned hang dog expression on his face.

 

She whispered back, “Because we’re adults?  On the floor of an elevator in a crappy motel?”

 

Then she felt one hand glide into her hair, holding her head against his, aligning his lips to her ear. Instantly, she felt her belly tighten as she felt his other hand lift her skirt, and slide up her inner thigh.  His fingers began tracing up and down the center of her panties.  "What color today, Scully,“ the words uttered so softly and so sensually she felt them like a caress against her skin.

 

She felt the air close in, as the Scullys in her brain went to war.  Who was she kidding.  His low, graveled whisper had already decided the victor.  "Black.”

 

“Hmmmm,” with the barest hint of a groan.  Under her skirt, she felt his fingers drag the material aside, and then the pads stroke gently through the small thatch of hair.  "Then…  _this_ … would look even redder.“

 

"Mulder, we can’t do this.”  A feeble, yet valiant attempt as she half-heartedly batted against his forearm.

 

“No one can see us, and no one will be able to hear, as long as we’re quiet.”  Through his whisper, she heard that hint of pleading in his voice.  "I need to make you feel good.  I’ve been going crazy for a week.“

 

She didn’t answer, but he felt her take a deep, long breath.  "The lights could come on any second.”

 

“So I’ll stop if that happens.”

 

“It’s too hot in here.”

 

“You know I get hard when you make my point,” and his fingers danced lightly across her mons.

 

She shouldn’t allow this. She shouldn’t.  They were adults.  Their federal government issued IDs proved it, although she conceded that their behavior over the past several months landed squarely in the horny teenager category.  Every time his strong, capable hands were on her, she felt them prying her fingers slowly but surely away from what was now their utterly laughable purchase on Catholic propriety.  Why did he always smell so good?  Her cheek fluttered against his whiskers with the movement of her almost imperceptible nod.

 

“Ssssshhhhhh,” he hushed, as his left hand moved to the back of her neck, anchoring her, their heads bowed together.  He nudged her thighs slightly apart with his right hand before reaching down into her panties and cupping her with his palm.  His fingers barely touched her inner folds.  His long fingers were always so gentle, at first. Worshiping.  Honoring.

 

He felt her take another deep breath, in through her nose, out through her mouth.  His middle finger deepened then, teasing her entrance; then it was sliding up, up, as his thumb and ring finger spread her apart, giving him the space to make a slow, wide circle.  She shifted slightly.

 

“Ok?” he breathed.

 

She moved her lips against his ear, the ghost of a kiss in the dark.  Her heart was racing from the sheer audacity and naughtiness that he was touching her in a public place, and that she was letting him.  His middle finger barely brushed over her clit, and then around. Brush, circle.  Brush, circle.  Then she felt him trail down to her opening, barely a centimeter inside, testing.  When he pulled his hand away, he heard her release the breath she’d been holding.  He brought his fingers to his mouth.  She heard his lips close around them and then his tongue swirl.  Then his hand dropped down between her legs again, his fingers returning to her center, slick with his saliva now.  Better, but she was tense.  She needed more than he could give her here, and he didn’t know how much time they had.

 

“I’m sorry, Scully,” he kissed her forehead so softly in the dark.  "You need my mouth.“

 

As her partner, and now her lover, he was so good to her.  Even in a moment as wantonly reckless as this surely was, his tenderness and reverence made her heart ache.  She surrendered.  "So use it, Mulder.  Talk to me.”

 

An intake of breath and the curl of his smiling lips; she could visualize his expression of shy delight as it morphed into open desire just as clearly as if she could actually see his face shining in the darkness.  He lightened the pressure of his fingers and shifted them outward, stroking her labia and the inner creases of her thigh, over the hood of her clitoris.

 

“Good?”

 

Another barely there nod of her head.  He rubbed her neck, running his fingers up into her scalp, through her hair, as he began to whisper, slowly, each word thick, and sticky, and hot.  "You’re so soft, Scully.  Softer than anything I’ve ever felt.  When I touch you like this it’s all I can do not to kiss you, lick you.  You taste so good, Scully, so sweet.  Every time I go down on you I can hardly breathe waiting for you to come on my lips and my tongue, so I can taste you.“  He heard her breath shorten, and the energy between them sparked.  All because of his voice.  Low, rasping.  Raw sex. "All I want is to make you come, so I can lick you clean.”

 

His middle finger stroked back now along her opening.  He pulled away again, taking her hand, interlacing their fingers.  Their joined hands reached under her skirt, and pushed her panties down.

 

“Feel … there…” It was harder to hear him for the familiar rush of blood that had begun pounding in her ears.  "Touch yourself with me, Scully,“ his voice impossibly deeper now.  The tips of her own fingers were sliding with his into her folds, as they gathered her moisture between and around, bathing her clit.

 

Their breaths harmonized as their fingers fondled her together; petting, stroking. "More,” she begged in his ear, as she began rocking against their hands.

 

His fingers pulled from hers, and she nearly groaned.  "Spread yourself open for me.“  He felt her hesitate.  She opened her eyes, confirming there was still no light to expose them.  "That’s it,” he praised, and she felt his middle finger glide inside, his thumb nudge her clit.  His tongue darted to her ear lobe, gently sucking it between his lips. Their hands still completely motionless.  Her hips instinctively bucked forward.  "Ssshhhh,“ a puff of air to her ear again.  "I’m going to start fucking you, Scully.  But you need to be quiet.  Can you?”

 

He felt her hand lift away, and then her arms encircled him, under his arms to grip onto the back of his shoulders.  He felt her press her open mouth against his chest, and nod again, soundlessly.  When he crooked his finger forward inside her, he knew she nearly cried out.  He heard her stifle her gasp into his shoulder.  "Shit,“ he nearly groaned, as his hand on her neck returned to the back of her head, tangled in her hair.  He held her tight against his chest.  He could feel her hot, moist panting through his dress shirt, each breath a counterpoint to his finger thrusting slowly, agonizingly in and out.  "God, honey, you’re so tight.”  She involuntarily clenched around him in response to his spontaneous endearment, one that she had only heard a handful of times, and he felt her thrust hard against his hand, a low sound from her throat.  It was his signal to add a second finger, as his thumb made tighter circles.  "Fuck, Scully.  Your clit, you’re hard and soft all at the same time,“ he was babbling, but he didn’t care, because of the feel of her around him.  "You’re getting close.  I know you are.”

 

He felt her press her face harder into his chest.  On the next thrust, he brought his ring finger together with the others, the middle one on top.  She was full of him, his middle finger putting pressure on her cervix with each upstroke, all of them angling forward on the downstroke.  The sound of their breathing punctuated with the wet sounds made by his fingers moving inside her. She felt herself tightening around him. He urged her as they found the perfect rhythm. “You’re there, Scully.  I need to feel you come." 

 

It was his voice that broke her tethers free.  He felt her walls fluttering around his fingers at first, and she was flying, her muscles spasming.  She was rigid against his chest, riding his hand through her orgasm as he lengthened his strokes, and she heard him again through the wind rushing past her ears, "So good, Scully.  There you go.”

 

He is holding her as the stars fade behind her eyes and her breathing slows.  She feels the wet spot on the front of his shirt against her cheek where her mouth had been; another in her panties which have somehow returned to their proper location over her hips.  He kisses her, slowly and deeply, pulling away to readjust her skirt over her legs and to her knees.  He returns to sit next to her.  She leans against his shoulder.

 

“Ok?” he asks.

 

She can’t speak, but she manages to nod, which she realizes he can’t see in the dark.  She hears him chuckle.  "Always happy to be of service,“ and she feels his lips brush the top her head.  She feels him readjust himself.  He has to be miserable.  She’ll take care of him.  As soon as they’re out of this damned elevator.

 

Click.  The flashlight reilluminates.  The spell is broken.  He looks at his watch, and then into her smiling eyes.  "It’s been 15 minutes.  Can I go up through the ceiling now?”


	3. Sigh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long day, and Mulder takes care of his G-woman. Orgasm for pain relief.
> 
> Some MSR smut for no other reason than it was fun to write. PWP. Rated NC-17.

Her palm opens at the touch of his fingers on her wrist.  Three smooth capsules are placed in the center, as her other hand reaches for the glass.  She opens her mouth and slips the meds in, followed by several swallows of water.  The glass is taken from her, and she hears it clink on the coffee table.  Next she feels him lift her her legs, swinging them around.  Then he is sliding behind, his legs straddling her, bracing himself against the arm of his couch.  His hands lift to her shoulders and he begins to knead the tired muscles, thumbs to the trigger points.

 

"Thank you."

 

"My pleasure.  Just keep your eyes closed."

 

"You can watch the game."

 

"You're in pain."

 

"It's just a tension headache.  I'll feel better as soon as the Advil kicks in.  Watch the game."

 

"I'll keep the sound down."

 

She feels him slightly lean away from her, a click, and then his hands return.

 

Five, ten, fifteen minutes go by.   The pressure of his hands remains steady as he works on the knots.  He feels her start to relax, and she leans back against his chest.

 

"Mmmm, hold me?"

 

He chuckles softly, "Always," and repositions himself slightly.  He circles his arms around her and she nestles against the crook of his shoulder.  "Better?"

 

"Better."

 

A few more minutes pass, and she sighs.

 

She hears him grunt.

 

"What?" she sighs again.

 

"You know what."

 

"What."

 

"The sighing.  The Scully 'I really want you to fuck me Mulder but I'm too tired and I need to go home' sighing."

 

"I'm just saying."

 

"Sighing."

 

"I'm just sighing."

 

"You woke him up already," and he shifts again, needlessly, as she felt the bulge in his jeans at the small of her back five minutes ago.

 

"I do want you to fuck me Mulder, but I'm too tired.  And I do need to go home.  My head still hurts a little."

 

"See?"

 

"See what?"

 

"I know that sigh."

 

"Sighing."

 

"Close your eyes."

 

"They've been closed this whole time."

 

She feels the fingers on his left hand start to unbutton her blouse, one, two, three, and before she can take another breath, they've slid beneath the fabric of her bra, and he is cupping her right breast in his hand.  He sighs.

 

"Now you're sighing."

 

"I am," and he sighs again, his index and middle finger playing with her nipple.  "I've been wanting to feel you up all day.  Besides, your breasts have missed me."

 

She snorts.  "They have?"

 

"Oh yeah.  Your nipples especially."

 

"I'm pretty sure you gave them a good once over this morning."

 

He slides his hand over to her left breast, rubbing her nipple with his palm.  "Two happy Scully nipples."

 

"So now what am I going to do about it?"

 

"Nothing."

 

"Nothing?"

 

"Not a goddamned thing.  It's what I'm going to do about it."

 

His right hand pulls the tab closure open on her slacks, lowers the zipper, and is immediately under her panties, his fingers brushing through the hair.  They both sigh.

 

"Mulder."

 

"It'll make the headache go away.  Orgasm increases seratonin levels," as his fingers gently stroke her labia.  "It releases endorphins."

 

"I know.  I told you that."

 

"And aren't you glad you did," as he spreads her wide with his thumb and ring finger, and slides his middle finger along her opening.  His other hand is still at her breast, fondling her.

 

She brings her left hand up to grip his left bicep.  Her right falls onto the top of the back of his couch.  "If you make me come I'll be too sleepy to drive home after."

 

"I am going to make you come, Scully, and yes, that's the general idea."

 

"I slept over last night."

 

"And the night before."

 

"And the night before that."

 

"It's all part of my plan."  His fingers, now slick and slippery, still play at her entrance.

 

"Your plan, Mulder?"

 

"To fuck you every morning for a week.  I'm testing a theory."  His fingers drag the wetness to the bud at the top of her sex, and start their maddeningly, slow, soft circle.

 

"Your theory?"

 

"That a thoroughly sexually satisfied Scully will agree that we should travel to Wisconsin next week to investigate the string of sightings of muskrats that appear to glow in the dark, having possibly been exposed to radiation.  Secret government labs."  His fingers dip back down, tease her, gather more of her fluid, and return to that aching, throbbing place.

 

"That can't be it."  She is starting to pant.

 

"Oh, that's it, Scully," and he flicks her clit gently.

 

"God!" and Mulder grins as he watches her pull her knees up, and then proceed to unceremoniously pull her pants down, along with her panties, to her ankles.  She opens her knees, giving him full access.

 

"Told you that was it," he chuckles, sliding his fingers up and down her folds, swirling her wetness up and around her swollen clit, now fully exposed to him.

 

"Fuck," she grips his bicep again, returning her other arm to rest on the back of the couch.

 

"Yes, Doctor," and he slides his middle finger inside her, as he presses his palm down against her mons, the downward, constant pressure she likes.  With his other hand, he begins to tug gently on her nipple, which he has trapped between his index finger and his thumb, matching the rhythm of his finger inside her.

 

She is panting in earnest now, the back of her head firmly braced against the hard muscles of his chest as she feels her release begin to rise.  He tilts his own head sideways against his shoulder so that he can watch her face, her cheeks brightening as she flushes under his ministrations.  She licks her lips, her eyelashes barely fluttering as she concentrates.

 

He watches her as he adds his index finger, several more strokes, and then he brings his index and ring finger together, his middle finger resting on them.  He gazes at her in wonder as she gasps, as he fills her with his long, sure fingers, curving them forward on each down stroke, searching for that spot that will send her flying.

 

"Good?" he almost moans.

 

"God, God, Mulder, so good," she gasps again.  "Can you... just a little deeper?  And I need... I need..."

 

He does moan this time, and he sits further forward, flexing his wrist to find a better angle for her.

 

"That's it, that's it, Mulder," she cries with relief, her nails digging into his arm.   "I need you to, please..."

 

"Relax, Scully, don't fight for it, you know I've got you," he whispers.

 

She whimpers and shudders in his arms, as he hits the perfect spot inside.  He rubs it with each stroke, feeling her muscles begin to tighten around him.

 

"Ssshh," he breathes into her ear.  He thrusts with his fingers, and finally, finally begins moving the pad of his thumb gently around, and around again.  She groans again, pleading without words as her hips undulate against his hand.  "My Scully has a needy, needy little clit, doesn't she."

 

"Fuck you."

 

"Not until I'm done fucking you," he begins to thrust his fingers faster, as his thumb continues its circles, gradually closer to where she needs him, barely thumbing the underside.

 

"Please, Mulder, touch me!"

 

"I'm touching you, Scully," he chuckles wickedly in her ear.

 

"Mulder!" she practically cries, grabbing his wrist to try to force the direct pressure that will ease the throbbing.

 

"You ready?"

 

She nods her head silently, and relaxes the death grip she has on his arm.  He feels the tension lift with her next breath and he seizes his chance.  His left hand suddenly leaves her breast and comes between her legs.  He sees her eyes fly open in surprise just as he grants her relief.  He pinches her clit, pulling it gently between his thumb and his index finger with the next upstroke inside her.  "There it is," he urges her, as she cries his name.  He watches her, all of the pleasure flooding her features, as she comes, hard, her walls fluttering around his fingers that are still buried inside her, dripping wet with her come.  "God, honey," he moans.  "You're soaking."

 

When her last cry fades away, his left hand drops away and returns to her right breast, holding her, her heart pounding against his forearm.  He pulls his fingers away, almost regretfully, and rubs them against his jeans.  She turns her head lazily against his chest as her breath begins to slow, a giddy sleepy smile on her face, and she opens her eyes to look up at him.  They are dark and sated.  She sighs.

 

"I love that sigh."

 

"Mmmm," she closes her eyes again.

 

"The 'I've just been brought off after a long exhausting day' sigh."

 

"But now I'm so sleepy, Mulder."

 

"I'll take care of myself, Scully, let me get you into bed first."

 

"Can I watch?"

 

"Can I put you in bed naked?"

 

"Are you going to fuck me in the morning?"

 

"Twice."

 

"Promise?"

 

"Are you kidding?  Wisconsin.  Irradiated muskrats, Scully."

 

He picks her up in his arms, leaving her discarded pants and panties behind in a pile on the couch, and carries her to his bed.  He helps her take off her shirt and her bra, and tucks her in.  She likes to cocoon after she comes, preferably his arms are her first layer, then his sheets, and his duvet over all, because she likes being blanketed with his smell.  Her eyes close as he kisses her, deeply and softly.  "Give me a few minutes?" 

 

"Mmmmm," and she licks her lips, tasting him.

 

He sheds his own clothes and lays down beside her.  She opens her eyes and watches him take himself firmly in hand, and they sigh as he begins to stroke.


	4. Tell Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr ask for a fic about Mulder realizing how much Scully loves/needs him to talk dirty during sex. This turned out more soft and sensual than dirty... but I think it fulfills the prompt in a way that is true to "my" MSR. Rated R.

It was just a whisper; a question like a breath in her hair.  The palm of his hand on her neck, thumb at her cheek, green eyes capturing blue.  Their sixth time.  He’ll keep counting for months.

 

"What would you like, Scully?“

 

Lips brushing, fingers sweep her hair behind her ear and tangle the strands in between.

 

"How do you want to come first?”

 

His fingers trail down her neck, to her shoulder, and down her arm.

 

“By my mouth or my hand?“

 

"Your hand first,” she whispers too, lying on her back, in his bed.

 

The barest grin plays across his face.  "I knew you were going to say that.“

 

"You did not.”

 

His head bows over hers. “Because you like me to kiss you first.  When we’re just slow.  And quiet.”

 

Open mouths meet, as one of his arms slides around her, the other drifting from her breast to her hip. Her arms circle his neck, soft lips along his jaw, as his hand falls between her legs.

 

"You want my tongue in your mouth when I start to finger you.  You like how I play with you, Scully, when I’m kissing you.“

 

He rests his forehead against hers, the gesture that has always held the promise of _us, more, someday_.  Finally, the someday is here, now, and in his arms.  He still can’t believe it.  But then, neither can she.

 

"Tell me I’m wrong.”

 

"You’re not wrong.“

 

"All this time, and the secret to getting you to admit I’m right was to take you as my lover?“  He teases her with his voice and his fingers.

 

"What else?” She holds him closer as her hands weave into his hair.

 

"Being the best you’ve ever had?“  His eyes dance and spark in the shadows, her hair like fire on his pillow.

 

"What else do I like, Mulder.”

 

Their tongues meet in the open air, filling the only space left between them.  He breaks their contact to press his lips to her cheekbone before whispering in her ear.

 

"Now, or in general.“

 

"Now.”

 

"Two fingers. Middle finger first, before I add the second.  Ring finger preferred over index.  I don’t know why.“

 

She moans into his mouth as he sets her rhythm.  Slowly and quietly, he refines her pleasure.  He holds her, and he soothes her, and he urges her until he watches her fall.  She is so beautiful when she comes.

 

When she slows, and she quiets, he whispers again.  "I pay attention.”

 

He traces the chain of her necklace, a tendon of her neck, with the tip of his tongue, his fingers feather-like, gathering her come.

 

"You know what else you like, Scully?“

 

"What’s that, Mulder.”

 

"You like me to talk to you.“

 

Her cheeks flush.  She watches as he strokes himself.

 

"Is that … new? For you?”  His voice is husky and wanting, his hand at her hip.

 

"It’s not something I’ve ever needed, or wanted from anyone, before.“

 

"Just me?” 

 

She bites her lip.  He soothes it with his tongue.  "Just you.“

 

He is so hard and so soft as he fills her, fills her, as full as she will ever be.

 

"Because it’s you, Mulder.  Because you’ve been telling me stories since the day we met.”

 

His heart pounds beneath the palm of her hand, pressed to his chest.  “Slide shows, too.“ 

 

"All this time, and I find out you really do know how to entertain a woman.”

 

"You love my slide shows.“  His hands cup her cheeks, her eyes bright as he adores her.

 

"Mulder?”

 

"Scully?“

 

"Tell me.”

 

"Another story?“

 

"This one.  The one we’re in.”  She sighs only to catch her breath.

 

He ducks his head to kiss her neck, her shoulder.  "Well, this one, it has a really good climax.“

 

"It does?”

 

"The best. Yours.“

 

"Not yours?”

 

"Mine too, but that would give away the end.“

 

Just a whisper, like a breath in his hair.  “Tell me.”

 

He does, burying himself as he pulls her down.

 


	5. Exposition

The third movement of Tchaikovsky’s 6th symphony suddenly swelled, filling the darkness.  The adagio in B major.  She opened her eyes to a blood red 5:15.  She stretched her legs and brushed long tangles away from her face before slapping the radio into silence.  She hummed a lament.  Her first surgery was scheduled for 7:00 a.m.  Routine tonsillectomy.

 

She could indulge for fifteen minutes.  She would even apologize.  She’d let him make it better.  She slowly inched her body backward in drowsy, pooling anticipation.

 

Cold, smooth sheets.

 

Thirty minutes later, she descended soundlessly.  She stopped just outside the kitchen door.  The lightening sky painted the walls a pale, sickly blue.  Her measured breaths were punctuated by the dull, rhythmic pings of water dripping from the faucet, striking edges of two day old dishes. She’d asked him to fix the leak every Saturday for three months.  She’d asked him to load the dishwasher twice last night.

 

Over-brewed coffee had turned the final corner and was resolutely burning, assaulting her nostrils with sharp bitterness.  She studied the back of his head as he sat at the table, still and silent in the dark. His thick hair waved over his collar. She’d asked him to get a haircut every day for weeks.

 

“I can hear you thinking.” His voice was low, hoarse, exhausted.

 

She deliberately tugged at the bow on the waistline of her scrubs, yanked both strings tighter, and retied the knot before exhaling.

 

“You haven’t heard me for a year.”

 

She watched for the nearly imperceptible tensing in his traps as they pulled his faded grey t-shirt fractionally tighter across his back.

 

“If you’ve got something to say, say it, Scully.” Anger culled in his rasping reply.

 

“I’m leaving.”

 

His head turned slightly in the direction of the stove.

 

“It’s five fifty-five.”

 

Her heart fell even further at his statement, not his question.  The monotone steeled her resolve. “I’m leaving, Mulder,” she repeated, quiet and dangerous.

 

He moved then, his hands falling to the sides of the table.  Triceps flexed as he deliberately pushed his chair away, the wood scraping the floor in a drawn out high-pitched squeal. He stood slowly, and as he turned she caught a glimpse of expressionless features in the growing light at the window.  His face was soon obscured in shadow again as he faced her, his eyes glittering.  A surge of giddy vindictiveness moved through her when his jaw finally clenched.

“After work I’m going to my mom’s.”

 

She stiffened further under his gaze, her chin lifting with a long forgotten petulance.

 

"You’re just going to run,” he gritted between his teeth, sandpaper in her ears. “Since when do you go to anyone else when we have a problem, Scully.”

 

He took a step closer to her, and then another.

 

“Since today. Since you’ve made it clear I’m sleeping alone.”

 

He tilted his head, the tip of his tongue at the corner of his mouth. “That’s what this is about? You want me to sleep with you, Scully?” he taunted as he took another step.

 

“This isn’t about sex, Mulder, and you know it.”

 

“You sure about that Scully?” he challenged. Another step. “Because whenever I get close enough to touch you lately the look I get makes my dick want to turn inside out.”

 

“My idea of foreplay doesn’t involve smelling days old sweat off of you from ten feet away.  Maybe if you’d made an effort by taking a shower and coming to bed even once in the last two months, you’d get laid,” she hissed in retaliation.

 

There was a growl that could have been a laugh in his throat. “Since when do I need a bed to fuck you all the way into next week, Scully.”

 

Another step. She could feel the heat from his body now. Instinctively, reflexively, her clenched fists relaxed.  She stopped her fingers as they started to extend into the space between them.  Too late.  He closed the remaining three feet in one stride. He grabbed her wrists, pulling her hands to his chest, and pressed her back against the doorjamb. One knee shoved its way between her legs.

 

“You want to solve our problems, Scully, or do you want to quit. Take your toys when life gets real and run home to mommy,” he seethed, leaning forward so that their noses nearly touched. The coffee on his breath was surely staining her lips.  She closed her eyes in anticipation of his mouth, bruising and fueled by every desperate and dying devotion.

 

She inhaled sharply when his free hand twisted in her long hair, pulling her head back. He ducked down, his teeth closing on the tendon running the length of her neck. She gasped into his hair when his tongue lashed against the rising welts. He forced his knee upwards between her thighs, grinding himself against her pelvic bone.

 

She ran her tongue against her dry lips, tingling from the kiss that never came, and shoved her fists against his chest.  “I’m done, Mulder.  I’ve had enough.”

 

He grunted, sucking his mark, mottling her skin. “I’ve never stopped listening, Scully. In this whole world, you’re the only thing I hear.”

 

A shared moan rose between them, a wicked, wretched frustration. He let go of her wrists, shoving his chest further against her to trap them in place.

 

His hand fell, his fingers pulling at the ties at her waist.


	6. Still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little angsty, a little fluffy, a lot trope-y, born from the @just-fic-already tropes workshop on Tumblr. The exercise was to write about a first date. In my case, the first date after the break-up. So this is a universe that exists sometime after IWTB, but let's just pretend that they resolved all the stupid stuff before the revival, shall we? Rated T.

A series of loud crashes, punctuated by a resounding bang, reverberate into his knocking fist.  His hand instinctively flies to his hip in the split second before he remembers that he doesn’t carry anymore.  He braces himself to kick in the door, wincing when his weight shifts onto his cracking left knee, but the door swings away from his face in a sudden rush, sucking his breath and his balance inward along with it. His forward momentum is painfully arrested by his right elbow, which takes the full brunt of impact as it meets the door frame with a dull crack.

 

“Mulder?” Her eyes widen in surprise, and she swipes at the barest hint of a sheen on her forehead with the back of her left hand.  She holds a ragged square of microfiber in the other.  Sweat dampened strands of hair curl from beneath a wide black headband.  She’s wearing her worn Quantico sweatshirt and Levis.

 

He’s knocked further off his game when he realizes it’s her oldest pair, the one adorned with splatters of grey paint and three little holes on the inside of her right thigh.

 

They’d gone to bed arguing over her protracted indecision between Benjamin Moore’s Drift of Mist or Sherwin Williams’ Monorail.  He told her he didn't care which guy she went with, as long as he could get rid of the flamingo pink that reminded him of stomach upset every time he had to take a piss.  She'd told him it was important that they made this decision together because they'd only been married for four weeks and what did it say about them if he didn’t want to help her figure this out.  He’d covered two of the walls with Drift of Mist and was halfway through the third with Monorail when she found him in the downstairs bathroom at 2:30 a.m.  She leaned casually against the door in a t-shirt and 501s and held up a paintbrush.  _"Is it too late or too early to help with the trim?"_   He bit his lower lip as he looked around, surveyed his progress, sheepish and caught.  _“It’ll be easier to decide if you can see what they really look like on the walls, in the light, don’t you think, Scully?”_   Color rose in her cheeks like sunrise.  She pulled the t-shirt over her head, and the roller hit the wall.  Flecks of paint sprayed her leg as his lips landed over a tightening, rose colored nipple.

 

His hands had circled her waist, and he’d lifted her as high as he could against the trunk of their tallest cherry tree.  _“Can you see?  How many?”_   He whispered up at her with boyish wonder.  _“You don’t have to whisper, Mulder.  You won’t wake them up,”_ she answered.  Her voice drifted down through the dappled sunlight.  A little squeal as she tipped forward too far and her leg slid roughly against the peeling bark.  The denim had ripped in three places as he lowered her to the ground.  She circled her arms around his neck, eyes wide and blue like sky.  _“Three.”_

 

“What are you doing here?” she demands, interrupting his thoughts, but not the grin rising at the corners of his mouth.

 

He lifts his chin and peers obviously over her shoulder.  Wide open kitchen cabinets, their contents strewn all over the counter, and, from the sounds of it, all over the floor too.  He’s been wondering for the past two agonizing months how she spends her Saturday nights.

 

 _She still does this_ , he thinks.  _After all this time.  After everything and everywhere she’s been._

 

“I’m … uh…” He realizes with a needle sharp stab of shame that his next words must form a lie.

 

She stares back into his juniper eyes.  "I thought we agreed about scheduling.  Boundaries, Mulder.  We’re working on boundaries.“

 

He forestalls the inevitable by clearing his throat, raises a large white sack to her eye level. "We’re – I mean me – is working on me listening.  You’ve mentioned Thai every time we've talked over the last two weeks.”

 

Not a lie.  Not the truth.

 

He hears her quiet inhale, and watches as a flicker of understanding, of unmistakable comprehension, passes through her features.  When has she ever not known him.

 

Her right eyebrow arches. When has she ever not saved him.  "Well, with enough hints I knew you’d get there eventually.“

 

He bows his head, scuffs his foot, humbly accepts her redemption.  He looks up at her, dares to reach forward.  He tugs at the rag in her hand without touching her.  "Plus, I’m your tallest friend.  Cleaning is relaxing.”

 

She releases her grip and yields the soft cloth to him, huffs a laugh at his ridiculousness.  "Cleaning has never been relaxing for you, Mulder.“

 

"No,” he admits. The truth pure and sweet.  "But watching you clean is.“

 

Her eyes are wide and blue like sky, and color rises in her cheeks like sunrise.  _After all this time_ , he thinks again, and dares to hope.  _After everything we’ve been._

 

"Mulder?”  She reaches for the takeout.  He steps inside.


	7. A Spoonful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How many MSR tropes can one fit into a 750 word ficlet? This came from the @just-fic-already tropes workshop. It began with an exercise that required us to write something tropey using a combination of predetermined prompts (words/situation/dialogue), and gave me an opportunity to write something that isn’t in my usual style. Rated T.

She hasn’t looked him directly in the eye since it happened.  7:12 a.m.  Ninety-four minutes ago.  This is why he’s responsible to book the flights and the car, and she makes the motel reservations.  Never the other way around.  Not since the adjoining room incident of January 23, 1994.  Naked in North Dakota.  Of which she has emphatically sworn him never to speak. 

 

Why is it that every single time they go out to eat they have to sit across from each other?  She should have told the waitress that their party of two needs two tables.  Sometimes she wonders if the real conspiracy they’re going to uncover in the end is that this whole thing is a shadowy deep state social experiment.  Field log #287: Subjects continue to demonstrate a profound inability to conduct themselves in a manner appropriate to their age, intelligence, and professional experience when alone together in a communal space.  Female subject is paranoid.

 

The diner is quiet, the roads impassable since yesterday.  An occasional coffee cup clinks in a saucer.  Classic country radio twangs from somewhere behind the counter.  She chews her bottom lip and examines the menu from top to bottom for the sixteenth time; runs her finger in a swirling pattern over the sticky, laminated cardstock complete with pictures of plates of a dozen different bacon/eggs/sausage combos that all look exactly the same.  As if her touch might somehow summon the secret magic from within and prompt the words to reshape, revealing an entree that doesn’t involve lard, high-fructose corn syrup, or a chipped ceramic bowl heaped with chunks of tasteless melon, self-recrimination, and one grape.

 

The hashbrowns look delicious and she hates herself.  He owes her an apology.  He needs to beg her not to file a formal complaint.  Not only did he lie to her face when she asked if he remembered to book their rooms before they left D.C. like she told him to because she was busy getting him the autopsy results that _just couldn’t wait_ , but he failed to consider the statistical probabilities of being stranded in the middle of who-the-hell-knows-anymore Georgia by a blizzard in March.  Extreme possibility is supposed to be his _life’s work_ , for fuck’s sake.

 

She glances over at the window.  The snow is now blowing sideways.  She stifles a groan.  She’s not going to bring it up, and if he brings it up she’s going to say she doesn’t want to talk about it.

 

When his foot taps hers under the table, she gasps in surprise and forgets that she’s refusing to look at him.  In a fleeting, paralyzing moment of being honest with herself, she considers kissing instead of slapping the meticulously arranged, perfectly neutral expression off of his face.

 

He clears his throat, nods slowly, sucks his top lip between his teeth which makes his pouty bottom lip maddeningly poutier as he considers her.  "You’re waiting for me to bring it up so you can say you don’t want to talk about it.“

 

She gapes at him for a split second, recovers with a little sniff and sits straighter than the earth’s gravitational pull and the anatomical structure of the human spinal column should allow.  She then pointedly resumes her intense study of the menu, contemplating the different ways she’d like to smother her hashbrowns, and his person.

 

Another tap against her foot.   He’s really doing this right here, right now, isn’t he.

 

She forces a sigh.  "I have no idea what you’re referring to, Agent Mulder.”

 

“Oh no?”

 

She looks up at him, immediately regretting her decision when he cocks his head slightly and blinks at her slowly, just as Dolly and Kenny loudly declare themselves islands in the stream.

 

“If anything, I would simply like to assure you that… that what you, we, might have experienced this morning was out of my conscious control.  The human body in a state of REM sleep will often…” She pauses to take a breath, mainly because she’s making it all up, but also because a lock of his hair has curled down over his forehead and she just really needs the air.

 

“Spoon his or her superior officer while on assignment?” he finishes, punctuating with an overt lift of his right eyebrow.

 

She blushes, painfully, from the ends of her hair to the toenails she painted pink because he complimented her once on the color a year ago.  But that’s another story.  "Mulder, I was not spooning you.“

 

"I woke up and you were grabbing my butt!”  He lowers his voice as he watches her look frantically around the diner.  He catches her eyes again, and whispers solemnly, “Agent Scully.”


End file.
